


We unfortunate Liars

by Cirrocumulus



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: (characters will be added as they appear), (might turn into explicit), F/M, Memory Loss, Other, Phone Calls, Slow Burn, Soda Can Innuendo, reset
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-07 04:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8782864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirrocumulus/pseuds/Cirrocumulus
Summary: His sigh is deep, rumbles like a thunderstorm with lightning cracking as he puts another chip into his mouth. “I’m just waiting for you to hate me. And I know you don’t believe in God, but...”   Her sigh is light as she interrupts him, like a feather that doesn’t quite know how to fly on its own. “Do you?”  His whisper drives nails through her hands and feet. “Not lately.”After spending a night with Seven, the world resets. This time, the messenger never falls into her hands. Red strings connect her and the RFA regardless. But she doesn’t believe in fate, and Seven’s faith is slowly dying.





	1. Reset

When she wakes up she doesn’t remember. Doesn’t reminisce about the why or when, or how this could have happened. Feels the sheets on the bed as if they are pages in a book with a story left unwritten, but the blank spaces and space of the blanket do not give her comfort. So she sits, back against the hard wooden frame, and inhales. The scent is sweet, but leaves her with a sour feeling like a shaken soda bottle would and she stirs as though her life is a cocktail and the alcohol has claimed her memory.

_Maybe it has._

But when her fingers press the light switch on the lava lamp, purple bubbles floating to the surface like trapped air, she simply feels at home. Home is a terribly small room with pink curtains in an equally tiny apartment with more pastel colours and for a second she wants to see deep red, but nothing in her room is. So she decides to get something that does have that shade, maybe a new lamp or new curtains. Maybe something as simple as a soda bottle because her mouth is dry and it faintly tastes like potatoes. She notes that she’d like to eat rice today, instead, and throws the soft blanket aside.

The air is fresh and cold and clings to her skin like the fingertips of undercover agents trying to get to the core of their mission by pressing their hands to scanners. She wonders if such touches would feel comforting or not, if they could unbind and unravel, then clears her mind by yawning as though she hasn’t slept this well in years. Shivers because the room is still cold and it rains outside while her mind is cloudy, but there’s the sun in her face. In, not on, because although the sun doesn’t shine her positivity lights up the whole room.

Her feet touch the ground, naked and not all that special, but she wonders why the cold clings to her even there. Slips into her slippers because of it, mind slipping into the normal routine of breakfast. Her way to the kitchen is made in a hurry, fast because a glance towards the clock let’s her know that her morning break isn’t long.

Once there, wonder brings worry to her eyes as she opens the fridge. There is a lot of green in there, fresh products that paint the world with health and she enjoys the sight, but it feels wrong somehow. As if the rightness of eating healthy is warped in a twisted way and she never craved cold pizza more than she does now. But there are no leftovers to be found.

Instead she takes out two tomatoes, wonders if that’s the best shade of red they could be, adds a slice of cheese and toast for a decent meal to start the day. But it’s yet dark outside and sleep still lulls her into a waking dream, so she decides to make coffee. She listens to how the water trickles through the old machine, enjoys the musical of the coffeemaker and the rain outside as she bites into her simplistic sandwich.

When she finally downs her coffee, all black and sugar free because she forgot to buy groceries once again, the morning already breaks with the first few rays of the sun. Fully awake, now, she quickly throws the utensils and coffee mug – it reads ‘HAVE A GOOD DAY’ in fancy letters, she’s grateful she knows English – into the sink and hurries into her bathroom.

In there, the light is white and the tiles are mint green. The mirror is slightly askew and definitely small, but it fits her face perfectly. An idle thought of someone standing next to her flashes through her mind, but she chuckles because she’s grateful she doesn’t have to share. There is no space left for a second person wanting to get ready in here, and she loves to take up space. Arms stretch and legs bend, a morning ritual turned into a dance by the time her toothbrush cleans her teeth. She hums a melody throughout it all, naked feet skipping from one minty tile to another as she twirls, hair flowing in tact to the honest little hums.

It takes her longer than most to get ready, but as she secures her hair into a bun that is almost perfect but could turn messy by a single tug of trained hands she worries little about how long would be short enough to not unnerve people. Thoughts about what to wear take over, she let’s her fingertips dance over her nightgown and briefly wishes that the sky would clear so she could wear a summer dress. But it doesn’t and so she settles for stockings, a long skirt and simple pullover instead. Strands of hair come loose as she pulls the light blue fabric over her head and just like that she looks like she barely managed to get ready in time. A smile graces her lips and she doesn’t bother to correct the slight imperfections. She knows if she simply changed her routine it would be easy to look more professional, but she cannot get rid of her morning waltz of the messy kind.

“Ever a fan of the usual…”, she chides herself, grabs her phone that still lays near the ever glowing lava lamp.

But as much as she loves her routine, she still indulges in the newest apps and gimmicks that technology has to offer. It’s the reason why she calls a selfie stick her own, why the purple bubble blowing glow is still there, why she owns a new phone every year. This one is only a few months old. Shines and surrounds her in cold light that holds all of her interest in a single screen as she powers it up.

Then chokes, eyes wide, smile even wider.

“It’s the weekend!” A squeal, childish and wonderful, fills the air. Drowns out the pitter patter of the rain, drowns out the nervous worry about catching her bus, drowns out all responsibilities.

She falls back against her bed, mobile phone in hand, and grins. Let’s her fingers dance across the virtual letters as she searches through the app store, eyes lit with joy. Purple bubbles sway beside her as she finds what she’s been looking for – a new puzzle game, simple yet sweet from the looks of it. She downloads three other apps, one of them for selfies, two of them simple endless sidescrollers.

Eager as she is she scrolls down some more, notices a fairly interesting yet undescriptive app, a messenger of some kind, and debates if she should check it out. The yellow icon is a stark contrast to the pastel colours of her room. She likes it, though, hovers her finger over the download button.

In the same moment, her phone starts to ring. Some instrumental of a popular song that most young people hum to when they hear the first few notes hit their ears, yet she is none of them. The number that stares at her is unknown, white numbers nothing more but digits that make her ponder whether she should respond or not.

Seconds tick by, feel like hours. Fingertips brush against the ‘accept call’ button and before she can ask who is on the other side a tired voice greets with dripping warmth and storming worry, wet when her mouth is too dry to say a word.

“Oh thank the Lord, thank God, thank you.” A sigh heaves and the crackling of a plastic bag or something similar flows into her ears. “It works, still. It still works.”

She laughs, heartily, breathless still without really knowing why. “It works? The phone?”

No response, silence. Then a shaky breath and goosebumps run over her skin as she answers. “I’m afraid you have the wrong number, but it seems to be your lucky day if your phone isn’t really a goner!”

A chuckle from the other side, bend like cable telephones. “Ahh…I don’t…maybe.”

“Can I help in any way”, she asks, offers, finally puts the phone near her ear. “You sound confused.”

“I am”, he breathes, starts chewing on something. “I suspect there’s a 99,376% chance you don’t know why.”

She scratches her cheek, worried but not ready to let this stranger go just yet. So she inhales, exhales, offers sympathy. “I’m afraid your math is correct.”

This time, both share silence. It’s awkward, like spilling coffee on yourself in a public place is awkward. Warm, but sticky with stains that won’t be washed out. She suspects she won’t forget this conversation for a while, too much does it strain from her routine for her not to care.

He exhales, eats more of whatever it is that lays in the crinkling bag near his phone. It isn’t comforting in any way. But the crunching doesn’t stop, picks up a steady pace and if it were ice cream she would be able to imagine him crying. It isn’t ice cream though and so he never does, instead mumbles something akin to a prayer.

She settles for a question, then, if only to stop this loud nothingness, for she does not believe in God. “…do I know you?”

He’s still then, all crumbling, all cursing ceased. Sighs, deeply, before he answers. “No, I don’t think so.”

Then his voice is cheery, cheesy in a way only pizzas can be and her stomach starts to rumble. He puts another handful of whatever snack he is eating into his mouth. “Sorry sorry for all the jitters, you don’t always almost kill your phone in a freak accident and then end up calling a stranger, haha!”

She giggles a bit herself if only to reassure the stranger, rolls onto her side, stares at the bubbling purple. “That’s true. Sorry that I am not who you wanted to talk to. I hope you can reach whoever you tried to call, though.”

“Ahh thank you! Your voice is really pretty, so I don’t mind at all!” The squeaking of a chair can be heard and she imagines him swirling around on an office chair because he’s all little squeals and hearty laugh.

“Please accept the apology from the great Seven! Zero! Seven!” He seems to swell with pride, voice booming.

“Thank you. You sound kind, too.” She can’t help but write the numbers on her pillow, finger scratching soft lines into the fabric, yet nothing stays engraved. Like her fingertips never touched it at all.

“What a strange code name, though. Guess that makes me MC, the main character of our unfortunate phone conversation!”

His breath hitches, then he chokes on one of his snacks. The pride crumbles like the pieces of food that scatter across his room.

“That’s one way to see it…”

Yet, he’s quick to pick up his cheery tone again, eats it like breakfast cereal without milk and it scratches his throat, but he keeps it up anyway. “If you are ever in trouble, then God Seven will rescue you! Feel free to save this number!”

She can’t help the snicker from escaping. “I don’t believe in God, but I hope he’ll let you know to eat healthier.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line again, before the crinkling of the plastic bag can be heard real close, mockingly. “God bestowed me Honey Buddha Chips and Ph d. Pepper! It is his plan to have me eat and drink all the yummy things! …I hope you eat other things though, haha.”

“Thank you, Seven”, she smiles, all sunshine on a rainy day. “Have a good day.”

She presses a button and the call dies quickly, voice cut off even though she is sure this Seven still said something in return. For a moment she wonders what he had to say, studies the number until the digits seems to blur in an ocean of lines. So she shakes her head, grins, keeps the little memory in her mind and wishes him good luck with reaching whoever he has been meaning to call.

Unintentionally, for her mind wanders from the conversation to simply his tone of voice and how strange it had sounded at times, her fingers hit the keys to save his number under a new contact. Realising that she needs to put in a name she simply types 707, then hits the button that makes him appear under her contact list. It’s not like she’s ever going to call him and maybe the purple glow of the lava lamp just messes with her mind, but seeing the number in her phone makes her feel content.

She thinks about God for as long as the rain continues to fall, unsure of what to make of it all. Stretches her arms, her legs, takes up as much space in the bed as she can. Ph d. Pepper doesn’t sound so bad, she muses. She might have to get a few bottles for herself next time she goes grocery shopping.

**As she returns to browsing apps, the yellow icon has vanished.**


	2. Hallelujah

He thinks about God for as long as the rain continues to fall, unsure of what to make of it all. Tucks in his arms, his legs, takes up as little space in the office chair as he can.

Chews on his bottom lip as though the soft flesh is hers and his for the taking, tries to taste her flavour, creamy and rich like coffee, but all that his tongue feels is salt. So he stops, reaches for his can of soda, hears the fizzing and imagines her bubbling laughter instead. Seven let’s the sugary drink coat his tongue, rolls it around as if it were mouth wash because he feels filthy. It cannot, will not erase the images that he woke with, pictures framed in his mind even when no photo of her still exists on his mobile phone.

He has a one track mind and it’s all about her, the code that he can never hope to crack yet she unraveled herself before him, for him, from the tip of her toes to the top of her teeth. Laughed like a virus because only danger could sound so sweet; he takes another sip of his drink and knows she is one hundred percent sugar without having to do the math. Seven savours the taste, moans diligently after taking a huge gulp and sets the can aside, let’s one hand roam over his keyboard and every single touch of a button makes him wish he could feel her instead. So he hits the keys harder, fingers bend but not broken, drowns out his own noises as his mind moves mechanically. Mute, he wants to put himself on mute, but can’t. So music blares through his headphones, a cold and broken hallelujah, and he prays like he wants to worship her instead. Luciel hums along, tongue tied.

His mouth is yet wet from the drink but his throat hurts, so shaky fingers grab the can. And his thirst rises like the waves of a stormy ocean as he grips the can too hard and the drink explodes in his face. Seven shakes, then, pulls on strands of hair like he wants to tug a bun loose while his other hand, free now and out of his pants, rubs the sticky soda from his glasses.

“God…”, he mutters, lips suddenly dry despite it all, but forehead sweaty, gaze still hazy from the high and the drink.

Seven can’t see properly and is thankful for it, for a moment. His cheeks are aflame, red as his hair and the dread slowly sinks in. It’s like bile, sour instead of sweet, and suddenly he wants to look at anything but his own mind.

So he pulls the glasses away, rests them on his desk, fumbles for a napkin that he knows must exist here somewhere. Touches the keyboard, touches classified information, touches his bag of Honey Buddha Chips. He finally finds what he has been feeling for, rips out sheet after sheet.

Luciel’s hands tremble and he almost rubs his hands raw with the soft paper, wants to be clean and shiny, clean because there is no other option but to be, clean because God wants him to be, clean because this version of her can never know. So he grips the napkins as though they are holy and he is not, wipes away the soda, wipes away the sweat, wipes away everything else, his wishes included.

Wishes of touch and flavour and love. It feels empty to bury them, but he has always been good at digging his own grave and this is no different. Seven knows what happened, why he was right all along, but it doesn’t cure the hurt. His anti virus program doesn’t know how to deal with her memory and he let’s his head hang low, body folded like an origami crane.

Then he puts on his glasses again, black and yellow frame perfect to portray him like a painting, and sighs. It’s a heavy sound that feels like a computer shutting down – and in a way, he does. Finally saves the information of her not remembering him, like remember is a word that he can turn into a meme with but a letter.

Seven laughs and it doesn’t sound pretty. “No mark, nothing. God Seven can’t touch the world.”

Can’t touch _her_ world, he thinks but doesn’t say. And he knows, deep down where his demons rest, that he can’t let it get this far ever again. God is cruel and he feels like a deity fallen from grace as he reaches for his phone and opens the messenger that holds so many memories, both alive ones and those yet to be born.

He logs into his account, fingers red and raw and burning because her voice came out of the device just a while ago. It’s fire to hold it, but he’s red all around and knows how burns feel. So Luciel types in his password, an arrangement of letters and digits only he knows the significance of, and joins the newest chat.

 

>   
>  **[707 has entered the chatroom.]**
> 
>   
>  **707:**  
>  God Seven has arrived!!! ^0^
> 
> **707:**  
>  lolol
> 
> **Yoosung☆:**  
>  Seven!
> 
> **Yoosung☆:**  
>  I’m playing LoLol rn
> 
> **Yoosung☆:**  
>  Best. Loot. Ever.

Luciel smiles despite himself, chuckles and it feels empty so he eats chips, but they only fill his stomach. It’s one of those days where he keeps up his charade of happiness, like he is a clown in a freak show and in some way, he is. But Yoosung doesn’t need to know that and so his fingers type out hollow sentences.

 

> **707:**  
>  gg!!!
> 
> **707:**  
>  Not as good as Honey Buddha Chips tho
> 
> **Yoosung☆:**  
>  are they in the game???
> 
> **Yoosung☆:**  
>  I want a honey buddha chip sword lol
> 
> **707:**  
>  you baybe lol
> 
> **707:**  
>  *yeh maybe
> 
> **Yoosung☆:**  
>  Uwahh don’t I’m not a child :(
> 
> **Yoosung☆:**  
>  oh ok lol
> 
> **Yoosung☆:**  
>  What have you been up to Seven?

And he hesitates, sucks in air like the room is on fire and he’s breathing in smoke. He glances down at his pants, begins to rapidly feel more uncomfortable in them despite his cleaning efforts, and coughs. Doesn’t stop, for a while, as though he learned a thing or two from Zen’s smoking habits.

It’s no use and so he stands, walks over to his drawer on tiptoes and proceeds to gather a new pair of pants and boxershorts. He gets rid of his old clothes, throws them to the side so they don’t lay on the pile that Ms. Vanderwood will clean. This is, after all, rather private. As he shuffles into the new boxers and pants he begins to feel less on edge, less dirty, and lets himself plop down onto his chair again.

He answers, eventually.

 

> **707:**  
>  Justice things, woosh!
> 
> **707:**  
>  Seven! Zero! Seven! Defender of Justice!

If anything, he is the Jerker of Off. He even chuckles at the thought, like a teenager would if he saw a crude painting on a chalkboard. It isn’t even remotely funny, but he’s laughed at memes like Longcat before, so this is entirely in character for him. Luciel lets himself swivel around in his chair while he waits for Yoosung to answer. He waits for a short while until the gamer responds. His plan can actually fall into motion soon.

 

> **Yoosung☆:**  
>  …and my life is so boooring OTL
> 
> **Yoosung☆:**  
>  But at least I have my LoLol and the guild!
> 
> **707:**  
>  Haha, no school no rules (but.go.to.school.eventually)
> 
> **707:**  
>  You can be my apprentice, young Padawan!
> 
> **707:**  
>  we start with operation: tell the others the messenger needs an update!
> 
> **707:**  
>  Woahhh! Woosh! Exciting~
> 
> **Yoosung☆:**  
>  O! Rlly?
> 
> **707:**  
>  Ya, rlly.
> 
> **707:**  
>  Two days without the great God Seven!
> 
> **707:**  
>  Two days without Zen selfies and Jaehee ramblings and ELLY!
> 
> **Yoosung☆:**  
>  What about Jumin :D
> 
> **707:**  
>  Elly T_T
> 
> **707:**  
>  will you survive it???
> 
> **Yoosung☆:**  
>  I’m more worried about you haha
> 
> **Yoosung☆:**  
>  but I’ll tell the others!
> 
> **Yoosung☆:**  
>  When will it go offline?
> 
> **707:**  
>  Now lololol

His fingers hammer across the keyboard like his life depends on it – and in some way her’s does – and with a single more press of a button the messenger freezes. Luciel reloads the page and only stares at a yellow background with white letters writing out a sentence, the usual 707 humour mixed in because he may be a genius but his jokes are childish.

‘ **707 – Messenger not Found**  
Sorry for the inconvenience, God Seven will repair the messenger ASAP. Pray to him and make offerings, thanks! _PS: Jumin, just gimme Elly already._ ’

He finally, as though he never imagined to find a clear trail of thoughts again, manages to sigh in a way that feels almost healthy. At least she cannot join the RFA now, at least he saved her from himself. That is enough, right? It’s the biggest offering he can make to his God and so he falls from his chair and onto his knees – and prays. Speaks long, humble sentences that ask for forgiveness because he must be a fallen angel to have caused her so much pain that the world decided to rewind, un-writing itself while he counted kisses backwards.

And yet he still longs for them and it causes his nails, bitten down to a point where he can almost not feel them anymore by applying pressure to his fingertips, to pierce into his skin. His joined hands feel like joined fists and he wants to punch himself for his sins, but God must have a bigger plan for her if he took her from him and all he can do is silently scream hallelujah. And it’s broken, not bend.

Luciel begins to cry, somehow, and it’s only then that he notices that the rain outside is still as ever present as the glasses on his nose. His God is cruel but his love is crueler and he does not know who of the two he should dedicate himself to. In his mind it had been okay, had been fine, a rare indulgence pristine enough to last him a lifetime if it had to. Because when lives were on the line only the here, only the now counted. And so he had let himself get overwhelmed by his urges, his passions and it had felt so good, so wonderful. She had been sweet, his very own forbidden fruit.

But there had been no ring to bind them together, and now he pays the price for it. And it hurts, God, it hurts so much. Hurts like a hurricane destined to swallow him whole would hurt, like drowning in an ocean of Ph. D. Pepper would hurt, like seeing your brother brainwashed would hurt.

“Why me…”, he whispers, voice barely a crack in the ocean of lightning outside.

His forehead touches the ground, body a blanket of broken dreams. “I pray, Lord, I kneel before you as a sheep ready for the slaughter and yet…”

The breath that he doesn’t know he had been holding dies on his lips. “…and yet you take her from me.”

His hands shake, falling leaves with an already fallen tree as he just lays there, hurt aflame and body cold. Whether the shivering comes from the cold or his faith crumbling underneath his prayers, he does not know. But he prays anyway, apologises in ten different languages, one of which is binary code.

The ones and zeros fall from his lips as if they are dead already and he grabs his hair and yanks on it as though he could rip out the right amount to start anew. The tears don’t dry, stain him like invisible paint would and he feels like a vandalised painting with flaws only God can see.

But it is time for him to get up and so Seven does, rights his glasses as if he could undo his wrong, and climbs back onto his chair. This time he doesn’t swivel it around, he just sits. Like a mannequin, like a machine with a single purpose and maybe coding is the only reason why God created him. So that he can create other worlds because there is no place for him in this one.

**He thinks about God for as long as the rain continues to fall, unsure of what to make of it all. Tucks in his arms, his legs, takes up as little space in the office chair as he can. And cries.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I have EVER written anything with this much sexual context. I hope it is good enough and the parallel of a soda can and private parts isn't too silly. Now, how long did it take you guys to figure out what Seven was doing? =D


	3. Soda Cans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter: Plot. So good of you to be here! 
> 
> Also, thank you, you wonderful people who commented! =)

The rain ceases to fall as though a giant begins to shelter the earth, back bent to strap clouds to his bare body. They are of the heavy kind; sugarless, grey cotton candy that only mythical creatures can treasure. Puddles yet remain, shallow like oceans for ants, but she has always been a fan of jumping into them, to feel like a giant herself, able to influence the world as if she were an earthquake. In some form she is, but does not know it yet.

Still, she feels a need to see the outside, to breathe in the rich, fresh, wet air as though it can still her thirst. Nimble fingers grab a strapless purse and her face lights up as if the sun plays hide and seek in her body. It tingles warmly, like feathery touches of old still wandering across her form. Unlike earlier in the day she finds solace in them, now. Maybe because the cold doesn’t pick at her skin anymore.

Quickly, as if the day is already aging terribly, her feet drag her out of her tiny apartment. The door closes with a thud, stairs lead her down, down, down as the sun begins to peak through the grey.

So she rushes outside, purse in hand, without the need for an umbrella yet the population has become a mass of black and white plates, raised into the air to become rooftops for one. Some people lower them as they appreciate the lack of rainfall, but most keep them up – too big is the fear to get caught off guard by the weather. Yet she knows that it is of no matter, she’d rather appreciate the swirling grey clouds above while she carves out her way to the grocery store. Her legs move as if they pave the ground underneath her feet, even as no one sells her some attention. That is okay, she isn’t interested in buying stares or nonsensical conversations. Hops into one of the puddles instead, water splashing in tiny waves away from her shoes. A giggle escapes her lips, a quiet little thing only meant for her own ears.

There is something pure in the way that she witnesses the world, problems not gone, but asleep for as long as she is awake. Most adults around her do not see her as their equal because of it, love to live in their grim realities with focus. She doesn’t disagree, doesn’t fall out of place because she knows she needs to be prim and proper and so her little rain dance stops as stares are offered to her for free. But there is mischievous intent hidden in her eyes, a quiet kind of rebellion.

So her feet only touch the puddles occasionally, as if it is a game of pure chance, something she cannot avoid. In a way, that is true. Yet her almost unnoticeable strength that she puts into those watery steps keeps her going, creates a grin so hot even the rain cannot dream of ever extinguishing it. And the water ripples below her still, treats her with respect and the giant holding up the clouds takes pity on her, so no more drops fall.

She makes her way towards her destination with the same amount of confidence, shoulders a straight line and head held high. Despite her form she seems to take up more room than some of the broad men walking beside her. She is thankful for the extra space that this allows her and falls into a small sprint, body aching to be eager. So she tries to be just that, clutches her purse close to her chest only for a moment before she lets her arms follow her fluid motions. If she appears less like a lady and more like a brat, then she does not let it dampen her spirits.

Time passes with each new step, each new umbrella, each new stranger. Until she stands before the grocery store that she has been looking for, a shoddy little thing with wobbling shelves and broken tiles. It’s age is as clearly visible as the wrinkles on the man who owns the brick built building. Yet she likes it here, enjoys the quiet hallways and space that she can take up without bumping into others. She does not mind the crippled selection of food, as she does not mind the crippled leg of the man who makes a living through her weird shopping habits.

Taking in one last breath of wet air she steps into the space full of dust, reaches for one of the cardboard boxes that serve as makeshift shopping carts. Cobwebs hang in the corners, see–through art of the natural kind. Yet the inhabitants are nice enough to leave shoppers alone, instead just watch with curiosity. Multiple legs seem to applaud her and she tiptoes around a broken tile on the floor. Hits another, instead, shudders at the sound of shards scratching each other. Hairs stand up, goosebumps form and then she hurries off, towards the vegetable section.

Not much can be found here, a few cucumbers and cabbages of soft green colours. They are more bend, more unnatural looking than those to be found in store chains, yet she is reminded by the fact that their standard for normal is not normal in the slightest. So she grabs one of the bended cucumbers, puts it into the cardboard box that tries to advertise oranges.

Her eyes find the tomatoes, a beautiful shade of red even though they seem smaller than what larger shops are used to. Fingers find the surface; clear, shiny. She lets her hand hold onto some of them, debates whether she should add the vegetable, the fruit, the piece of food without a clear identity. Decides against it, eventually. Lets her body move her toward the section of instant noodles, fills the cardboard cart with multiple packages.

Her mouth feels drier than it had outside, as if she were gulping down dust. No wonder, in this environment, though wondering she does. Mumbles to herself about what else to get, thankful for the privacy in this old, tattered building. She does not see other costumers, walks through the aisles with as much freedom as possible. Stretches, looks up, down, reads labels and softly hums melodies to herself. Then she dances over the broken tiles, hops from one complete square to another.

When the store owner notices her, all crooked teeth and broken smile like he himself is one of the floor tiles, he greets her with a small nod. Turns on an old radio that blares out the most recent songs that young people would like; her smile grows at that and her feet tap to the rhythm of the beat as she walks into the use for dairy products.

Then the music stops, a jingle resounds and the voice of an announcer comes to life. The news at four make themselves known with politics, boy bands and crimes and she cannot put it all onto context, but listens regardless. Wonders why words alone make her stomach churn or her lips lift, wishes to be a part of something bigger. So she can meet new people, learn face to face about their stories instead of having to rely on the media.

Her mind thinks, works in circular motions as if it were an arrangement of gears with but one missing. But then the announcer, voice deep and as emotionally neutral as always, drops a single name. One she has heard in the news before, but never listened to quite so clearly.

“…Mister Jumin Han is expected to visit the fundraising gala for cancer patients together with his father, the chairman of C&R International. This marks the third time the Han family has graced this special event with their presence. The event will be seen on TV next Thursday at eight o’clock. Other important guests include…”

“Huh”, she wonders aloud, grabs milk absentmindedly. Thinks maybe she could watch it, though she rarely watches TV at all. But it could be fun, she supposes, and it is certainly a worthy way to pass the time.

Other names slip from her grasp, too much is she stuck with trying to figure out which milk to pick – even though the store only has two brands – and whether or not she should really spend her evening watching VIPs raise funds for cancer research while drinking wine so expensive it would cost her an entire month’s rent.

Right now, the milk seem more important. She decides on the slightly more expensive brand, adds it to the cardboard box, lifts the entire thing up and stumbles towards another aisle to pick up sugar, then to one with frozen pizza. The store only offers the regular cheese and salami, but that is good enough for her. Once there, words from outside reach her ears, as the place is too close to the entrance of the shop. Shrill sounds, squeaks and screams. Her face scrunches up and she winces, too unnatural are the voices. They are plastic forks scratching on chalkboards and it makes her shudder.

Then the bell chimes, the music resumes, the screams cease and a hooded figure sneaks into the store. Starts coughing, dark and dusty, and hurries into one of the aisles as though this entire place is a maze and the stranger has no map. She’s a curious person, so hurried fingers grab the groceries as her feet carry her towards the hooded customer. There he is, quickly found standing between soda cans and magazines. He picks one of the colourful ones up, looks at the title, lets well kept nails dig under the pages to turn them around.

“Tse”, he clicks, tongue flipping upwards to produce the slightly annoyed sound. “Did they really have to pick that picture?”  
She can’t help it, remarks on the situation herself, voice airy between all the dust and grime. “Never seen someone like you pick up a teen magazine before.”

The stranger turns around, quickly, tugs on strings to secure the hood more, all hair hidden by black fabric. His eyes are a striking almost-red, on his face rests an almost-smile. Then he laughs; a helpless chuckle too young to die as early as it does. But a relieved sigh follows. “Oh? Seen someone like you pick up teen magazines before, though.”

“Sure thing”, she answers, as secure as a password to a user account. “Still read them. Guilty pleasure, I guess.”

This time, the laughter that follows seems more genuine. “We all have those.”

He shrugs, places the magazine back where it belongs and checks out the soda bottles instead. Eyes roam over the fizzy drinks as though they describe paradise with a single bubble. Fingertips touch cold aluminum, then two fingers nimbly grab a cola can. He glances back towards her, holds up the drink. “I’m supposed to be on a diet.”

She raises a brow, points towards the can with the gaze of her eyes, for her hands are occupied holding her purse and the cardboard box, which rests against her hip.

Her mouth works fast, faster than her prim and proper attitude. “Ah yes, the black hoodie wearing stranger with the love for teen magazines is also conscious of his own body. And then here’s me, craving cold pizza.”

“One pizza won’t ruin your beauty.” He waves his hand holding the can of soda, then points to himself. “One fizzy drink won’t ruin mine.”

She huffs, cheeks a tinge of red due to the unexpected compliment. Decides against commenting on his own arrogant little remark. Instead, she scans the different types of soda herself. Looks for Ph. D.

Pepper as though all the other brands do not exist. She knows the little store usually keeps a decent amount of the drink, but today she cannot find a single can.

A sigh and then she turns around, nods towards the stranger, then towards the cash register. “You can go first. It’s only a single item, after all.”

He thanks her, humbly. If humble means bending towards the knees while making a flashy movement with hands, that is. Yet the gesture is appreciated and he walks towards the nonexistent line, puts his can on the looping band and watches how the soda travels towards the old owner. Payment takes next to no time at all and he thanks her once more with a dazzling smile.

For but a moment one of his hands vanishes into one of his jeans’ pockets, slides like a snake would, as if he has done it countless times before. Then he holds a pen, scribbles something before tucking the pen away and gestures towards her before he slithers away, out of the store, to a place she does not know.

As she walks towards the cash register the fuming sounds of a motorbike start, with wheels turning, screeching across the street and the sound becomes harder and harder to hear as the music drowns it out as if it were a battle. She declares the emotional love song of a boyband she has never heard before as the winner and lines up her groceries.

“Do you have any Ph. D. Pepper left, Mister Goh?” Her smile is all toothy.

His is a shattered mirror, but she doesn’t mind. The shaking of his head disappoints her, though. “No, no. See, a man came in a few hours ago. Weird fella, bought all the Ph. D. Pepper that I had. Talked about there being a shortage or somethin’.”

A shrug and his back cracks, shoulders slump forward. Wrinkled fingers grab the groceries, slide them over the scanner. “Was good business, though. But sad for you, I guess.”

“Ah, alright”, she breathes, mouth still dry. “I’ll just try to get them next time. How’s the family doing, Mister Goh?”

Mister Goh scans the frozen pizza, smiles and it freezes on his chapped lips. “The wife is doing better.”

It’s not much, he is a private man after all and there is really no need to talk about private topics with him, but she has been a costumer for a long time and the tiny hints of their personal lives give both of them something to think about. She appreciates that, smiles in return and nods.

He drags the last piece of grocery, the bend cucumber, across the scanner, then types in the price manually since it has no strip if code to mark it. Once the total amount of money stares at her from its space on the cash register, red letters and all, she begins to search in her purse for the amount of money that she owes him. Finds it, places it on the counter and pulls a plastic bag out of her purse.

Mister Goh nods, takes the money, hands her back her change with the well known speed of a turtle. But she doesn’t mind, as she alone builds the line. When she receives the recipe about what she bought she becomes confused, though. Let’s her browses shoot up, tilts her head to the side, bites her lip. Wants to correct Mister Goh on his mistake but then she looks at the second piece of paper and finds only one name on it – one can of coke.

She scratches her head, fingers idly busying themselves as she carefully lets her eyes roam over a single sentence, eyes widening with each word.

 _Thanks again!_  
_\- ZEN_

This time, she is the one that screeches. The flow of the font matches Zen’s perfectly, the eyes had been the same. She finally realises why he picked up that magazine, holds the recipe close to her chest and bounces up and down, as though she is nothing but a puppet with strings. Never has she had the luck to run into a star. She cannot believe her luck, lets it run over her form like a pleasant shower.

Mister Goh chuckles lightly, despite the fact that he does not know why she feels so much happiness. He simply turn out the radio and that change of the atmosphere is enough to let her stop her sudden development into a squealing fan.

“Have a good day and eat well.” A gesture towards her food and she gets the message.

Picks it up, places every item carefully into her plastic bag. The recipes vanish into her purse, but the smile stays on her lips. She wishes Mister Goh a better day, then leaves the store with skips in her walking cycle. Feels like a track on repeat as she stares at the clouds.

The sky has turned darker once more, the giant has vanished. Thick strings of rainy drops hit the ground, hit her head, soak her clothes. She sneezes, once, shudders, but appreciates the cooling sensation now that the dust of the shop has been left behind. The weather cannot dampen her spirits and so she hurries back towards her home, as a thought crashes into her mind the moment thunder begins to roll.

**A round of LoLol and a warm slice of gooey, cheesy pizza sound perfect right now.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone stop those Ph. D. Pepper stealing redheads!


	4. xXMCXx

Rain clings to her clothes, cold, cruel. She sneezes and cannot stop her shuddering until her feet, now out of her shoes, touch the floor of her apartment. It is warm and pleasant inside and she sighs, stretches and puts the groceries aside before her body drags her off towards the bathroom like a puppeteer would its puppet. The water that still clings to her isn’t entirely unpleasant, cannot make her regret her decision to not take an umbrella with her.

But now she craves warm water, wonderful flows of fake waterfalls. So she steps out of her skirt, pulls her pullover over her head and shakes her wet hair. The bun gives away entirely and tangled tresses fall onto her shoulders. Goosebumps form and she thinks she looks like an angel with its feathers plucked. Strange, for she does not believe in angels.

It is no matter and the fracture of a piece of her mind vanishes as soon as she steps under the shower, fully naked now, surrounded by minty tiles. The soft colour feels restricting, but as she turns on the flow of water all wary thoughts get washed away. She lets her fingers travel over her skin, relishes in the warmth of millions of droplets that run a race over her body. Feels how her tense muscles begin to relax, as if squares form into balls. Touches her toes, cherishes her chest, adores her arms. Slithers over her shoulders – and winces, just slightly.

She angles her head to look at the spot and finds a purple place amongst her rosy, water-kissed skin. No memories of how she could have gotten it wash over her, but she presses two fingers to it regardless and gasps once more. Maybe she hurt herself somehow? She isn’t quite sure, not entirely free of wonder. But she cannot stop herself from ghostly letting her fingers run over the slightly bruised flesh. Whenever she touches it, a hot red hurt flashes before her eyes and so she stops eventually. Gnaws at her lips as if that could help her remember.

It does not ease the question, so she lets it fall and grabs a bottle of shampoo instead. She does not truly care about the smell, but the unreal strawberry scent still manages to draw a smile on her face. Hands knead the pink liquid substance into her hair and bubbles form, bubbly like her laughter. It’s soothing, calming, wonderful in more ways than one. But then some gets into her eyes and she curses lowly, shakes her head, tries to rub the pain away with the knuckles of her hands.

Moments later the stinging feeling is gone and she enjoys herself once more. Lets body lotion soak into her skin, the water turned off for a while. It’s an enjoyable sensation to feel fresh, like the air had been outside. She wonders if the false strawberry scent or the street smell mixed together with the aroma of freshly fallen rain is realer than the other.

More shower thoughts take over as her hands find her body once again, eager to get clean. Wonders how many rounds of LOLOL she should play, which role she should pick, whether or not she should eat the entire pizza or only half. Thinks about the colour red without knowing why, the number seven without being able to put the two into context. Maybe she should write Seven a message or maybe that would be the wrong thing to do.

She sighs, watches how the bubbly water travels down the drain, on an adventure she cannot follow. So she shuts off the stream of see through liquid, steps out of the shower, body wet and hair yet wetter. Outside, the cold begins to pierce her once more. But she fights it with a towel as if it is armor, dries her hair with a smaller one that can very well be considered her weapon. Once half dry she lets the smaller piece of cloth fall to the ground. Clad with only the bigger piece of fabric, wrapped around her body like a dress, she skips off into the kitchen, careful to not slide across the floor.

Once there it takes her only a minute to get the freezing pizza out of its packaging and into the slightly rusty oven that she proudly calls her own. Nimble fingers turn up the heat and then she’s off towards the bedroom where she pulls out one pyjama outfit after another. Counts up from one to seven, then stops and simply settles for the third one – a simple, black variant with a kitty face adorning the long sleeved shirt.

The other pieces of clothing litter the ground, colourful yet still a mess. She figures it will not hurt to fold them neatly together again after she has had her cheesy pizza and played one or two rounds of LOLOL. Eagerly she hops in front of her mirror, a thin little thing that is tall enough to display her full form. She lets the towel fall away like concealed worry and her brows draw together as she studies the purple spot on her shoulder. It almost glows like her lava lamp would and she hopes that if she were to rub it a genie would grant her a wish. Wants answers to how it got there, but only comes up blank, like an unwritten paper. And genies do not exist, she knows, she tried the trick with her lamp once.

But maybe a shooting star can help her, not that she ever saw one in person. That makes her think, though, as her thoughts travel lightning fast even though the shower isn’t running anymore. Maybe she could try out the Shooting Star server in LOLOL today. She figures yes, that would be a good idea, as she rubs the sore spot absentmindedly. Winces still at the touch. Needles stab her skin in just the right way to not only produce pain, but also something she has yet to name. Shakes her head, too weird is the thought. After all, who could have kissed her…?

The thought alone sets her cheeks aflame. But she does remember, at least thinks she does, that something is missing. She’s a lightweight so alcohol could be the answer, yet those aren’t the stars she prefers to see.

It does not matter, not really. But the wondering won’t stop completely, even as she wiggles into her panties and pyama bottoms and hurriedly pulls on her cat shirt. She pulls the fabric aside to glance at her shoulder one last time, then dashes off towards the kitchen again. Turns around, wooly socks the reason why she slides across the floor, then grabs her laptop and cellphone and rushes towards her baking meal once more.

She sets the laptop onto the tiny table that serves as her only eating station. It is round, made out of cheap plastic and cannot possibly allow more than one person to eat from it at a time. But that is okay, she lives alone after all. So she quietly likes the simple furniture, as it is hers and only hers. Quickly her fingers hit the power button on her laptop and then she checks on her pizza.

Gooey bubbles of cheese stretch into the air, the aroma of baked dough with wonderful toppings reaches her nose and she can only drool out of impatience. Wooly feet stomp onto the ground once, the sound buffered by the material. But it does make her frustration about not having a can of Ph D. Pepper to enjoy alongside her pizza into something akin to a temper tantrum. She huffs, takes out a glass and fills it with carbonated water instead.

Afterwards she takes a glance towards the clock that hangs on the only free wall of the room, notes that she has to wait at least another seven minutes until her meal is ready, and proceeds to log into the Shooting Star server of world of LOLOL.

She hasn’t played in a long, long time. Cannot pinpoint why she feels the sudden need to play a round. It simply does not click in her head, the only thing that clicks is her mouse when her fingers hit the left side of it.

Instruments that build up an epic orchestra through the speakers leave her with mental images of wonderful worlds and excitement builds in her belly. Races towards her lips until a smile shines through. She logs into her account after admiring the login screen for a few seconds with the simple presses of a few buttons, pulls her lips between her teeth. How much will have changed?

> [ _Welcome back, **xXMCXx**!]_

Age old memories flood her mind as the well known hub comes into view. She clicks once, twice, looks at the characters that she can play as. There aren’t many that she has played often, though the little army of champions that she calls her own would be impressive for newbies. Her favourite one, a blue haired lady playing an ancient instrument, even has a multitude of skins available.

Once familiarity has taken over her slight anxiety she looks at the news, the updates, reads until her mind counts down from seven to zero. Afterwards she sits down back again and reads some more while shoving hot, cheesy goodness into her mouth. It’s pleasant and although she tends to favour rice most days, the taste of heated pizza seems to invoke a comforting feeling inside of her. A tiny voice that tells her to share, though there is no one to share it with. It does seem quite big for her alone, though.  
So she shrugs, takes another bite, savours the flavour as she hits the button to start a match. There are no friends in her friend list, so a fight against and with strangers it is. As long as she can play support, she’s sure she will have fun.

So she logs in and prays, thinks that the bottom path would also be okay, and watches as the circle turns in a repetitive motion while the program searches for other lonely souls or those desperate to find a last team member.

This time, the queue is kind towards her and soon a shrill sound signals that a match has been found. She watches as the names start to appear in a random order, blinks as the ever known boring chatting starts. Her figure rush over the keyboard, ready to win this little fight.

 

> [ _xXMCXx joined conversation_ ]  
>  [ _Shooting Star M joined conversation_ ]  
>  [ _Echo_Girl_Fan joined conversation_ ]  
>  [ _MysticalMessage joined conversation_ ]  
>  [ _Hacker God joined conversation_ ]  
>  Hacker God: **top mid woods bot sup lolol**  
>  Hacker God: **top lolol**  
>  Echo_Girl_Fan: **TOP**  
>  Echo_Girl_Fan: **dammit**  
>  xXMCXx: **sup**  
>  Shooting Star M: **bot**  
>  MysticalMessage: **woods I guess ._.**

“Yes”, she mumbles to herself. Crumbs fall down on her kitty shirt, a string of cheese sticks to her lip. She takes a sip of water and cracks her knuckles, her shoulders, as though she is getting ready for a boxing match. Eyes scan the other users and she raises a brow at ‘Hacker God’ – whoever that is must be pretty full of himself.

Like always, at least when always had been her routine, she ignores the rest of the conversation. Most people are either childish or arrogant and she can do without both. But then her name drops like a bomb, just as she picks Mona and locks in her arcade skin.

 

> Shooting Star M: **WHOA**  
>  Shooting Star M: **are u THE xXMCXx**  
>  Shooting Star M: **???**

Her eyes widen and a chuckle presses its way outside, just as she gulps down another piece of pizza. It causes her to cough and she just stares, like a deer before the barrel of a gun. She just wanted one game for this weird melancholic feeling to leave her alone. Not be confronted with her past – even if the sentiment could be endearing. It washes over her like a wave of soda, just as deadly as the one of the ocean but sweeter.

When she types again, the other players have already written some more. The countdown steadily does its job, but there is yet enough time to advance the conversation. Not that she wants to, but she doesn’t want to be rude either. Just wants some peace and quiet.

 

> Echo_Girl_Fan: **guess I choose Sari**  
>  Echo_Girl_Fan: **that OK?**  
>  Hacker God: **whatevs**  
>  Shooting Star M: **arr you?**  
>  Shooting Star M: ***are**  
>  Hacker God: **ye u a pirate?**  
>  xXMCXx: **uh**  
>  xXMCXx: **I guess**  
>  xXMCXx: **…arrr**  
>  Hacker God: **KNEW IT**  
>  Shooting Star M: **OMG**  
>  Shooting Star M: **IM LIKE UR BIGGEST FAN**

It’s been a while since someone declared they are a fan of hers. In a way it makes her proud, to still have some form of influence even now. But it also makes her skin crawl, her flesh itch. So she scratches, just a bit.

Feels the need to just play the actual game, without any sort of false heroism. She wants to be a side character, the goofy sidekick, maybe. Someone who changes things without being the center of attention. Maybe it was wrong to call herself a main character, maybe she should have picked a less silly name.

But she cannot change it, has a part of herself that does not want to, anyway. So her fingers hit the keyboard once more, a flurry of tips and taps that type out a few words. They are genuine without being grand. She’s humble, has always been that way.

 

> xXMCXx: **thank you**  
>  xXMCXx: **^_^**  
>  Hacker God: **lolol**  
>  Hacker God: **notice me yoosung im the god here**  
>  Shooting Star M: **you don’t understand**  
>  Shooting Star M: **they are like**  
>  Shooting Star M: **the reason why I got into the scene.**  
>  xXMCXx: **O_O**  
>  Shooting Star M: **like, competitions and stuff**  
>  MysticalMessage: **didn’t they run a blog?**  
>  xXMCXx: **…ahaha**  
>  xXMCXx: **Yes**

Ah, she cannot keep the blush from her cheeks. Leaves the pizza slices on the table, forgotten. Hides her face behind her sleeves, even though no one can see her. She’s burning on the inside with embarrassment. Flames lick her skin until it is red and raw and she finally stops drawing her fingernails over her arm once a picture forms. It’s one of pain, so she winces.

She’s thankful that the game starts without another interruption by Shooting Star M, clutches her mouse with as much strength as she can as her character begins to spawn. Her fingers swiftly control the blue haired lady towards the shop, where she purchases her starting gear.

Then she lets her float to the towers on the bottom part of the map. The character of Shooting Star M soon follows her.

Meanwhile, the well known flaming wars start. She can only blink as the first death crawls over the screen with a drumming sound. Thankfully, it belongs to the enemy team. The top lane gets roasted like a piece of meat at a barbecue. But someone must have poured too much chili sauce onto the food, if the conversation between Hacker God and the enemy is anything to go by. She simply rolls her eyes.

 

> [ _Hacker God has drawn First Blood_ ]
> 
> Hacker God: **lol noobs**  
>  Hacker God: **bow to your GOD :D**  
>  Zen <3: **pfft so stupid**  
>  Zen  <3: **hacker**  
>  Zen  <3: **too dumb to even hide it!**  
>  Hacker God: **lolol saltier than honey buddha chips**

She doesn’t know why, but has to stop a giggle from escaping her lips. Cannot possibly explain why her fingers rush towards typing a sentence as well, even as the enemy team is advancing. This will only cause her to focus less on the task at hand, but there is no possible way for her to not take the bait that wasn’t even laid out for her.

 

> xXMCXx: **probably doesn’t taste as good though**  
> 
> 
> Hacker God: **haha feel the buuurn**  
>  Hacker God: **that’s my girl!**

Confusion clouds her face like the clouds outside coat the sky. For a second, everything is at a stand still. As though a hurricane runs over the country but she is in the middle of it and doesn’t kw what is going on outside, only knows that it must be complete chaos.

Then Hacker God goes down, dead, only to spawn anew. She hides behind a pillar and lets her hands fall from her mouse and keys. Simply stares, as a storm of worry flashes her mind brightly awake. No one, not even her biggest followers, ever knew that she is in fact a girl. And no one has ever made such a joke. So numb fingers find letters once more, skin sweaty, shoulders shuddering.

 

> xXMCXx: **how do you know that I’m a girl…?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favourite headcanons is that MC was a LOLOL player in the past or is a casual player in the present. She would probably have tons of gaming evenings with Yoosung and Seven, only to quit sooner or later because Seven can't stay serious. Because of my love for this headcanon I wanted to include something similar into the story. Though it's far more elaborate here. Also, Sona is my main, so 'Mona' is MC's main. ^^'


	5. Hacker God

What leaves Seven's mouth is fear, reincarnated because he cannot fathom when it has ever had gone away but at one point it must have been a mere speck of dust in a somewhat bright future. Now, the only dust around is the one coating his glasses. What swallows his voice, instead, is a marred monster. Try as he might, his throat constricts like a snake draining his lungs in a scaly embrace. So flashing fingers grab a tight throat while the second hand holds his mouth closed as if it could hold the devil back. But the beast claws its way to the surface, fangs ready.

  
Through his headphones comes a voice accompanied by static. It is quite frantic, quite static, even though there is yet wonder shining through. "Seven, are you okay?"

  
And he cannot do anything but cough, so he does. Lets his fingers float over the keyboard so they root themselves in technology instead of skin. He prefers the draining of the machine before him to that of real, fragile beings. Loves car engines more than fresh air because machines are never truly real unless he lends them life. They cannot wither away under his touch, instead blossom into technocolours with the power of his mind. And he enjoys that feeling of creating without destroying because God knows his fingers aren't golden, they are the gore that graces the good.

  
Luciel does not know how to fix things, so he laughs. "Just choked on a Honey Buddha Chip, Yoosung!"

  
Lets his voice travel over the speakers as if it were drained in honey, smooth and sweet. No static, Seven owns the best equipment and yet that isn't good enough for him. "Now that would be a way to die, eh?"

  
The voice on the other end of the line chuckles, in a way that only boys who have yet to grow into men can laugh. Distantly, Seven hears the fluttering of keys being pressed. "Hah, yeah."

  
Glossy eyes gaze towards the screen before him, take a second to take in the last of written words. The chat blinks as a soft chime plays.

 

>   
>  xXMCXx: **...?**

  
That brings Yoosung's voice to life again and Luciel cringes at the slight static that underlines his friends' next question. Innocent though it may be, for Seven it is the mouse that feeds the snake around his throat and he coughs once more for air. Yoosung doesn't notice. "Hey, Seven! How do you know that xXMCXx is a girl? They never said that in their blog, like, ever!"

  
"Heh...", Seven replies, thumb pushing his glasses upwards in the blink of an eye whilst fleeting fingers let the figure on the screen travel upwards. He stands before a tower, presses a button and the pixelated person starts to dance. As always, he is good at this. At trolling. At letting the world believe he is nothing but a ray of sunshine, no cloud to be seen. No wonder that Yoosung flocks to his side whenever he can, desperate to take in the good instead of the bad.

  
"I've got my methods." It isn't a wrong statement, not necassarily. But who would believe him if he ever told a story of repeating time, of repeated rational thoughts turned to stone, of Medusa twisting her hair around his neck and him not being able to not crave it even though he knows he isn't worthy of loving.

  
So, instead, he points at his name at the screen, all pride and a preacher. "I'm a Hacker God, aren't I?"

  
He's preaching all the wrong religions and clutches his necklace with one hand as fingers grace the keyboard with their presence once more. Chuckles, lightly, just to keep the bile from rising up. The smooth surface of the metal cross dries his sweat, though the dust around his glasses still clings to him like the memory of an old lover.

>   
>  Hacker God: **its in my name, haha**  
>  Hacker God: **cool, eh?**  
>  Hacker God: **lolol**

  
She doesn't reply, but her avatar dies. Flutters to the ground as if weightless, and then just lays there. When she respawns, she does not move. Seven bites his lip and feels the tears like snake teeth in his eyes. Fingers never find the rim of his glasses, nothing gets removed to get rid of the prickly drops that stay, never fall.

>   
>  xXMCXx: **what if I report you**

  
He sighs, then, the hint of a grin dancing over his lips as his in-game persona removes the shaking of hips from left to right. Seven can feel the frustration of Yoosung all throughout the invisible line that connects them.  
"Seven, do you really think you should troll that much...?" The static resumes, carries with it a heavy air that presses against his ribcage.

  
Yet Yoosung's voice is as soft as ever. "You know that this is serious practice, right?"

  
"Haha, Hacker God knows no pratice!", is his fake sounding reply. Fake, because too much positive emotion has been pressed into it. As if empty air could fill it like a balloon. He hears it pop without ever making a sharp sound. "Just have fun, fun, fun!"  
"I don't think she has fun, though..." His friend trails off, and the distant click-clack of keys being hit resumes on Yoosung's end.

>   
>  Shooting Star M: **ahaha, he doesn't mean it like that...**  
>  xXMCXx: **then how does he know...?**  
>  Shooting Star M: **a joke, lol**  
>  Shooting Star M: **right?**

  
"Please don't make her feel bad, Seven", he presses on, then, the typing vanishing into nothingness. Instead the endless clicking resumes and Seven feels the need to lower the volume, because his thoughts are too loud.  
Nothing is going right, today. Or has ever gone right. Or will ever be right. Because he is Seven, the fake persona. Because he is Luciel, the empty preacher. Because he is Saeyoung, the forgotten sinner. And he feels bad, for more than Yoosung could ever know.

  
Feels how the snake constricts further, feels how his fingers turn to stone against the smooth surface of black, plastic buttons. But he wouldn't be Seven if it wasn't for his convincing laugh, right?  
And so he laughs. It's something that he knows he does right, because everyone believes it. "Relax, haha. Just a joke, of course!"

  
In his peripheral vision, there sits a half-empty can of Ph.D. Pepper. Though his body doesn't move to take it, so he thirsts, throat dry, on his lonesome. Can't bring himself to drink, or to type, or to fight. So he dies, and like her, remains unmoved, stuck in an ever repeating animation.

  
Seven silently thanks Yoosung for his childishly good intentions of resolving conflict, no wonder how small. At least, he does so until Yoosung resumes his typing, all the way fighting two enemies and winning by a landslide.

>   
>  Shooting Star M: **Hacker God is sorry**  
>  xXMCXx: **oh, is he?**  
>  Shooting Star M: **yup!**  
>  Shooting Star M: **and I know you want to hear that on your own**  
>  Shooting Star M: **so why dont you join our chatgroup after this game?**

  
By now, Seven cannot breathe any longer. Sits in his chair like a hunched stone statue, and simply stares. Like a gargoyle would. He should have known better. There is no uncalculated wonder behind Yoosung's way of acting. As childish as the young man is, he's always been good at seizing opportunities. Seven can relate to that,loves procrastination as much as his blonde friend.

  
The best possible outcome for the lowest amount of invested energy, a life full of minimalistic effort and maximum danger. The life for a hacker. And Yoosung simply knows how to charm people, but has stayed pure while doing so. Maybe Seven likes being around him due to this. Can fool himself into being just as untouched by the darker things in life.

  
So, Seven does what Seven does best. He laughs. "What a fanboy."

  
"I'm not", comes Yoosung's high pitched reply.

  
Luciel presses his headphones to his head, drowns out the outside world whilst muttering words of mockery. "Is it because she's a girl or because she's that epic blogger?"

  
The pitch of Yoosung's voice doesn't change. Truly, the dark shade that dusts his cheeks can be envisioned without his face gracing Seven's presence. So the hacker chuckles even louder at his friends' reply. "W-what does it matter?"

  
"Nothing~" But it matters, truly, it does. Matters more than Seven would like to admit, because she still runs through his mind. Numbs his body with nothing but memories and makes him crave more than honey buddha chips and cheap soda. She makes him want it all, all that he can't have, and he had it once. So one could call him posessive, the way his nails find the cord that connects his headphones to his computer, the way they scratch at the rubber surface until he finds indents in the cable and knows he has to replace it as soon as possible, because only the best is good enough.

  
Because clearly, he isn't the best, he isn't good enough. Can never be good enough. He is the deep, dark depth. And yet his blood boils and fingers tug on strands of hair until red tresses lay in his palms. More and more miniscule strings of red find the way onto the pile, until he reads her next message.

>   
>  xXMCXx: **okay, I guess**

  
He's cool, on the outside. "Yo Yoosung, guess it's a date, huh?"

  
But his words drown in the sea of cheers that turns into a tidal wave on the other end of the line. He's the fish that it can't hook, so he simply gets swept away by that ocean of joy. "Yes! Seven, this is great! Oh gosh, what should I do?"

  
He knows it is going to be seen as a joke, yet still bites the inside of his cheek as the poison drifts outside with a voice as sweet as honey. "If your dating record is anything to go by, then not be yourself, lol."

  
"Ahh, that won't help me, Seveeen", Yoosung wails and something hits the table, probably his head if his muttered declaration of pain is anything to go by.

  
Seven pumps his fist into the air, all stone that kept him frozen gone in an instant of keeping up the happy charade. "God Seven is a love guru, you can trust him! Even cats love me!"  
Yoosung deadpans. "No, they don't."

  
For the moment Luciel finds solace in his unrecognised acting career. So he mocks heartbreak, puts a hand over his chest. "Ellie loves me, and there is nothing that can come between us."

  
The giggle from Yoosung's end is a welcome distraction from the scoreboard that Seven's gaze is fixed upon. Slowly, he witnesses as his team gets slaughtered one by one, Yoosung being the only one to still fight back in what could be considered a noble fashion. Characters drop left and right, with his own and the one from her being safely tucked away at base. Seven snickers when the big bold letters announce that they have lost the match and the two random members of his team begin to announce that they will report him. He doesn't particularly mind.

  
Even after closing the window that showcases the outcome of the match, Yoosung's good mood can't go sour. He's all smiles and happy giggles as he announces that he is currently writing to xXMCXx, and that he can't stop wondering what she might sound like.

  
All the while, Seven silently listens, hands finally alive enough to grab the can of soda and relieve him of the constricting feeling in his throat. He believes it has simply settled in his stomach, now, though there is nothing he can do about it. So fingers find a program that distorts his voice, push buttons, work magical wonders until he sounds more robotic, more anonymous, more unreal than he already is.

  
Just then, she joins the chatroom, voice quiet, yet as beautiful as he remembers it.

  
**"So...Hacker God, huh?"**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very, very sorry for this really late chapter. It is much shorter than I wanted it to be, but it sets things in motion, so come next chapter we can slowly get towards the juicy bits! My life was rather busy this last month. I had a rather deep phase of depression, but my life has changed for the better, which means I am much more happy in general. The writer's block that had me in its grasp vanished as a result of it, so I am officially back! =)


	6. Not the Chips you've bargained for

He wants to speak to her like he's known her for eternity. Wants to tell a joke so funny only she could laugh along with him. Instead, he listens to his own distorted voice as it mocks her, eager to keep a distance that cools his mind as equally as it does his heart. Yoosung swims in the fortune of talking to someone like her. While Seven drowns he cannot fault his friend for his excitement. That doesn't mean that it hurts less, though.

What luck that robotic laughter sounds sincere even in its fake arrangement of sounds and so the bitterness falls away as a soft chuckle reaches her ears. "Yup, Hacker God, that's me. Hah, you might wonder who exactly I am, right?"

Her voice drips sarcasm. "Definitely."

"Is there a reason why you sound so weird?" Yoosung sounds doubtful, as if afraid Seven could troll some more when all he really wants to do is shut himself away from the world.

How can technology be both his saviour and the cage that keeps him connected to the outside so easily? He's in love with machinery because it cannot rot away, not in the same way that human relationships can do. And yet it connects him to people right now, grasps him with headphones and mocks him through keys. He feels rooted to the spot as if the chair that he sits on cannot possibly roll away, as if it is less like a piece of furniture and more like a beast that has him firmly between its claws. The cushion a tongue as it tastes his inner unease.

"Anonymity, dear Yoosung. I wouldn't be a Hacker God if I were so foolish to let myself get caught by a beautiful girl!" The metallic scratching of distorted words falls away as Seven sighs, then resumes. "Ya gotta keep your hormones under control if you want to be a true God! Which I am, by the way. A humble one, of course."

Seven isn't sure if she has mastered the kung-fu of comebacks yet, though she definitely packs a punch. "Good thing I don't believe in Gods."

He presses onward, lets his tongue dance over his lips before the fear inside of him can steal his voice. Burns out the incoming burnout by ignoring his inner question of whether God exists or not. "If you decide to become a proper worshipper then I will even apologise for my behaviour! What a deal, am I right?"

She scoffs, but there is laughter in it, too, a thrilling echo that has Yoosung sigh dreamily. There is a part of Luciel that knows he can never get enough of that sing-song sound. Even if he were to distort it like his own voice, he knows there would yet be life in it. If he could, he would eagerly drink her laughter like he does his soda. Would press his lips to hers and revel in the happiness that only she can breathe out.

But her lips only feel the microphone. Waves form that flow like a drum and she apologises for the muffled sound. "You're quite full of yourself, aren't you?"

And she's right. She's wrong. She's both heads and tail and he would throw a coin if he didn't already know that no answer would satisfy him. Instead fingers find the cable again, nails digging deeper into the material as strings of words fall out of him. He lets a bag to his left rustle as fingers grab a baked good that seasons his sarcasm as it touches his tongue. "Become a worshipper today and get a bag of Honey Buddha Chips and a can of Ph. D. Pepper for free!"

Yoosung gasps. "You've never offered me a bag before, that is so unfair!"

The young male giggles as an idea overwhelms him and he puts on the nicest shade of dishonest enlightement that one could possibly hope to find. "Oh Hacker God, can I be a worshipper too?"

"Sorry, none can do, Yoosung", is Seven's muffled reply as potato chip crumbs fall from his lips. "This offer is for beautiful girls only."

"And how do you know that I'm not an old cat lady?" He can feel her cautious smile, cannot contain his own in the process.

Static on the other line as Yoosung goes all out to let her know all about her beauty and Luciel finds that it cannot be as truthful as his very own words because he _knows_ while Yoosung does not. But then again, Yoosung never had to know to find his heart touched by her. And maybe there's beauty in that, in not knowing and still believing. Like believing in a God that never blessed you.

Yoosung cannot stop the words from spilling out, just as Seven spills soda on his shirt. "Your voice is already wonderful, I'm sure you're even more pretty! Like whoa, you're my idol. How cool is that? You're so great and I know all about your blog posts and you changed so many things in our community and-"

"Aha", she chuckles, "but I'm sure you're an idol for others, too! A better one than this Hacker God, at that."

Even the distortion cannot hide the fact that he begins to enjoy the soft pushes of mocking banter that begin to grow from nothing into something. Something he cannot quite put his finger on, so much harder is it than to type out lines of code, but it yet manages to warm the part of him that ought to remain cold. "Aww, but cat ladies are the best thing ever! And I'm a great God!"

Seven clutches his cross again, paws at it as if playing with it helps in the long run. He chases away the thoughts that want to shower her in compliments, for a storm of excitement already exists on Yoosung's side and he has a different role to play. Luciel supposes he is the sinking ship, but maybe he's already the shipwreck on the bottom of the ocean.

It's her voice, loud and clear when even his mind seems to malfunction, that grounds him even as the waves of doubt carry on. "Hah, I've got a great idea, oh big, great Hacker God. If you become my worshipper, then I will forgive you!"

And her laughter booms as she adds another sentence. "And I demand _two_ bags of Honey Buddha Chips as an offering! One for me, one for Yoosung!"

Yoosung cheers. "Come on, Seven! Pleaaase~"

" _Two_ whole bags? Blasphemy!" He cannot stop it. Giggles, even as his stomach constricts like a cobra. And breathing becomes diffcult once more. Because Yoosung just said his name as if it were nothing when all of this distortion, all of this unreal metallic underscore of a voice was so she doesn't find out that he is, indeed, Seven Oh Seven. Maybe it's his love for keeping up personas, but she shouldn't know about the connection between the LOLOL player Hacker God and the telephone call of Seven Zero Seven. Hell, she shouldn't know him at all.

It all just goes downhill from here and now he is sure that he is already shipwrecked. And yet there is only amusement in her tone as she puts two and two together. He can envision how she tucks on a loose strand of hair, bun messy and ultimately fated to find an end that lets her hair spill free. It doesn't help his racing heart from calming down.

Her words are poison, but the best kind. "Yes. There's an awful lot of people with God complexes in my life lately. Isn't that right, _Seven_?"

Yoosung just seems to faint from all the excitement altogether, head hitting the table so hard it makes him wince in pain. "What, you knew her and never let me know? Why am I always the last to know..."

Quickly, Luciel lets his fingers, still sticky from the soda that spilled all over his shirt, run across his keyboard. The clicking of his computer mouse and the hitting of buttons ebbs into a dull melody. Once he is done, he clears his throath and chuckles. Every bit of robotnic reassurance has left his voice. "God Seven has been caught! Good job, MC! You win _three_ bags of Honey Buddha Chips, haha..."

" I take those and an apology...and an explanation." She's serious, for a moment, hums to herself and he knows that her hair is falling across her shoulders right now. Smooth, soft, serene. Knows that she is letting her fingers flee through the tresses and imagines, just for a split second, that his fingers, sunken deep into his own locks, were touching her hair instead. The image is only destroyed by the fact that the Ph. D. Pepper yet coats his fingertips.

"Yoosung", she continues, "let me know when you received your own bag. I'm with you, take it as a thanks for being such a...dedicated fan, uh...yeah."

"Sure thing", Yoosung beams. "Seven, you heard her. One bag of chips just for me. Damn, this is my lucky day. A cute girl _and_ a promise of Honey Buddha Chips!"

"Haha, you're too cute, Yoosung!" She feels like herself, then, as if she knows them for longer than she does. And he knows that she's an open person, honest and bright like a sun even on cloudy days. Knows that her heart sticks to others much better than Ph.D. Pepper could ever stick to fingers. Knows that he can't rinse her from his own mind, even as he cleans his hands with a tissue.

"Ah, God Seven was beaten. So mean..." He sniffles, lets his voice drop until he sounds like a broken man. It's fake, but real, yet he knows how to separate his broken self and the acted part that Seven considers his favourite role to play.

She doesn't pick up on the hidden pain, only chuckles, and Luciel is thankful for it. "Guess you can't hack my plan after all! Let's arrange where to meet, so that you can pay your tribute to your new God."

As if it were an afterthough, she adds "I'm sure you want to know what an old cat lady looks like. And I can't wait to see how shady Hacker Gods really are, heh."

Yoosung, eager as ever, can't help himself. "Whoa, can I come, too?"

"Great idea", she replies. "That way I can see, with my own eyes, that Seven keeps his promise."

Luciel shakes his head, tucks at his necklace until he feels pressure on his neck. He keeps it in that position, then, and mutters an ugly prayer towards God that remains unheard on the other side of the line.

"God, I am so dumb. God, I am the worst. God, I am a sinner. God, I can't even keep a promise that I make towards myself. God, why the fuck am I such a fuck up. And why the fuck aren't you keeping her away from me."

"Seven?" Her voice is honey, the only religion he truly needs and he finds the thought of worshipping her, even only in a joking manner, to be much more fulfilling than speaking to a deity who mocks him through silence.

So he copies her smoothness, voice soft even as his gaze is hard and the pain on his neck gets worse. He feels the snake crawl out of his stomach and bite into the back of his head. "Haha, sure, sure! The more, the merrier. God Seven - I mean Worshipper Seven will hand out the offering tomorrow, if our humble Goddess is free in the afternoon."

Her yes is all he needs to hear to claws at his own throath just to keep himself from screaming as he digs her grave without permission. And she gives it readily. "Sounds good! You know the treasure cove that is this tiny mall near the train station? Oh, you do live in Seoul, do you?"

"Hah, yes" he huffs, hopes the microphone doesn't pick up the strain in his voice.

"Good! Anyway, there's this old mall near Seoul Station, you can't miss it. It's pretty much the most run-down shop in the area. Meet you two there at 5pm!"

Once she has left the conversation and he has said goodbye to Yoosung, Seven shuts down his computer and simply stares at his soda soaken chest. The necklace dangles around his neck, red specks of metal chains line it like a temporary tattoo.

**He reaches forward, puts another Honey Buddha Chip in his mouth, and can only taste bile instead of butter.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And after six chapters, MC can finally meet someone other than the random encounter with Zen! Yay! That's what I call progression~ But really, from this point onward, a lot more will happen a lot quicker, so I hope you will enjoy the ride!


	7. Icarus' Wings

The night is harsh and the streets of Seoul are loud, even now. But in his apartment, the silence reigns. Like a king with a scepter made up of numbers and his name features the devil in his veins. And the thing with kings is that they will always be dethroned someday, but Luciel prays the nightmares away and so God has mercy on him. Enough mercy to grant him a minute of rest because seconds is all he is going to get.

The soft breathing, accentuated by the rising and falling motions of his chest, is a reminder of his corporeal form. And he wonders yet if, once he opens his eyes once more and sees the world of glowing codes before him in high definition, the winning movement will be the rise or the fall. And in his mind he is Icarus on his way towards the sun, but night still cuts the light away and candle wax doesn't melt with the cold.

Luciel feels old. Like a statue made up of stone and broken memories. With moss framing eyes like glasses, there to stay and lead the way because moss always grows on the northern side of reality. If he's looking towards the north, he does not know. Seven is a master of not knowing a lot of things, and knowing those that are grounded in concepts, rather than emotions.

Knowledge is power, but right now it just makes him grow weak, like a plant shriveling up because the sun won't come out. And it yet stays hidden from him, so he knows that he hasn't worked throughout the whole night. It is no comfort, so lazy eyes light up alive once more and numb fingers crack like a code. The hacker in him motions his body to do his bidding and like a string of numbers it unravels for him. So muscles strain.

Seven takes in the blinding screen in front of him as if he were watching a movie, then shakes his head and heaves a sigh so great it rips the silence in two. Fingers go back to work as if they know no concept of vacation and there is peace in finding none for himself.

The sun greets him a few minutes later, parting the sky in two with as much mirth as it can muster. He grimaces, winces at the harsh illumination and resumes his work. Feels how the wings on his back melt and can almost hear her voice as it reprimands him. It drags itself around him like an uncomfortable hug, yet he finds comfort in it.

Imagines the way her shirt clings to her clothes, all wrinkles and wonder as it rides up past her legs, arms stretching. He lets his eyes fall closed, eyelashes stuck to not grant him the wish of granting a wish even as he tries to search for one just loose enough to pluck. Seven knows what he would ask for. Would dare to let his gaze travel over the pretty underwear, peeking out from under cloth that smells just like her but once belonged to him. He sees her sleepy gaze before him, all worry even as a wary smile graces her mouth before he grazes her lips. Then thinks of all the things she would say.

"Seven, you need to sleep..." He knows that she would sigh in that lovely way of hers, stuck in a land far away from the world of the living for sleep would still have her in its grasp.

"Hah, someday", he breathes out, and his fingers become wax over the keyboard. Run, then get stuck, resume, only to harden again.

He lets them fall away and reaches for the waistband of his pants instead, lets the string snap tight to get him out of his reverie. But it only causes him mild discomfort, not yet enough to make him fall to his demise as the sun greets the world with laughter.  
So he imagines further. Makes her figure step towards him, hip out to the side, one hand pressed on her waist as she stands before him, gaze downcast, bangs shielding her face from view. "Saeyoung, I'm serious."

Seven is good at writing strings of code, so his inner mind has no problem with making her behave in a way that is just real enough to have his breath hitch in his throat. So he lets her body move, flow like water as she drapes herself over him, legs straddling his lap as though she were a waterfall. She lets herself fall completely as her mouth connects with his, breathing oxygen into his drowning form. And he gasps for more as hard hands soften, drag downward to drown him completely. He feels other parts of himself become tense, hyper aware of a touch that isn't quite like hers but could very well be like it if only he could get his fantasy to cooperate.

So he wills himself to speak, voice shaking as his fingers touch just the right places, gentle, flowing like her hair would. God, he wishes to touch it. "I'm serious, too."

And he hears her laughter bubble up, lips intent to find his own again even as he bites the inside of his cheek to not make another sound. The world is yet so silent. Luciel breathes into her fictional form, kicks his legs and feels the chair roll over just a bit. So he does it again, imagines that her movement has them move across the room as her hands heat him up so much he becomes pure wax. There is a wish to return the favour, but he only has two hands, both of which are pre-occupied with making him feel what she would make him feel. He wishes he had more, enough to elicit moans from her lips, enough to entangle himself in her bedhair, enough to touch everything of her.

Thinking of her whispering sweet nothings in his ear is easier, so he does that instead. "Seven, I think we've got a curious situation here."

"What about it", is what he asks, grabs himself fully now, careful to not feel his own nails for they would shatter the illusion.

And she laughs, sultry, lets her lips pop as if she were popcorn in a microwave because her next words couldn't be more corny. "Your spaceship just won't launch properly."

And he opens his eyes, rips one of his hands out of his pants and slaps himself despite the circumstances. He doesn't stop with the flutter of touches, even as he feels himself get closer to his release and further away from the imagination that just had him in its grasp. "God, did I really think _that_ was a good line?"

But his question finds no answer.

Seven doesn't mind the steadily approaching fall, feels himself burn already.

~*~

She awakens with the first rays of the sun, all shine and shimmer as she hops out of bed as though life has claimed her body like an age old lover would. The clouds that painted the sky white yesterday have vanished to make place for a blue horizon. Maybe it is the reason for her good natured happiness, or maybe she already plans ahead, as though she was made for planning in the first place.

She briefly wonders about the thought, fingers reaching to pull on soft strands of hair. It is difficult yet to tame it, but she tries. There is value in try, she knows that it is a currency not many deem worthy of treasuring. Yet she does, and it makes her laughter all the livelier as she stares at her mess of bedhair in the mirror. Brown tresses stick up in all the wrong places, give her a mane like a lion, framing her as he witch but thankfully the stakes aren't high to be burned alive. The sun alone burns brightly, but it doesn't hurt her. She cannot even see her own eyes, has only her bangs to blame, and makes a finger motion as if she is handling a gun, finger on the trigger and-

"Bang!" Her laughter rings out in the miniscule space of her bedroom and she shakes her head, shakes away the night and all its dreams. Then fingertips find old remnants of sleep in her eyes and she carefully cleans them.

She resumes with her daily routine, complete with a precision that only careful hands can know when forming their hair into a bun. And, as is written in stone, it all looks like a messy entanglement of tresses once clothes clad her back.

~*~

When she walks toward the meeting point the same outfit still dresses her quite nicely, even though no one would consider her hairdo a masterpiece. She likes it that way, still finds the beauty in the little flaws, and could rival the sunshine with the power that she puts into her light steps. So the walkway seems to avoid any cracks especially for her, as though it considers itself lucky that she would step on it.

Her gaze settles on the rundown supermarket, then on a form hunched over a mobile phone with a rucksack strapped to his back. Blond hair sticks out to all sides, making the young man in the baby blue jacket appear like a chick, just freshly hatched. The kind smile that he grants her once his eyes find her's seems just as pure and he waves enthusiastically, only to then become self-conscious.

She laughs as she approaches him. "Ah, you've got the right person! You are Yoosung, right? Uhm, Shooting Star M?"

He lets his hand travel through his hair, in a fashion so awkward that it screams adorable. It is easy to keep the smile on her face, even as he seems embarassed enough for the both of them. "That's right, heh. Kim Yoosung, nice to meet you!"

"Nice to meet you, too!" Her reply is honest, and it shows. The smile she gets in return could win against the yawn of a puppy and she muses that he seems to have a lot of qualities that would qualify him as a young, open-minded dog.

The urge to praise him for nothing in particular raises up inside of her, but instead she points towards the empty air next to him. No one aside from the two of them stands in this little part of town, tucked away even though it remains local enough to hear the drowning sounds of the city and train station. "Where is the self proclaimed God person, Yoosung?"

He giggles, and it is the sound of uncracked bells, yet shiny even though he must laugh a lot if the pleasant factor of it is anything to go by. "Seven said he rescued the world, so he didn't get any sleep."

"Wow, so he made someone elses LOLOL game hell?" She quirks a brow, lets her body fall against a wall that seems spotless even when the rest of the area is littered with dirt and grime.

Yoosung shakes his head and only now does she realise the deep, purple spots that underline his eyes as if he were a clown stuck in a show. A clown because his smile seems so infectious that she can't let her gaze travel away from him. And yet the bags underneath his bright pupils speak of a restless night. "Oh no, I stayed up the whole night leveling up a new character. Seven was never on."

"Ugh, so you are no better than him, huh?" She sighs, but there is no pressure behind it. "Sleep is important, Yoosung."

"I know." He replies faster than her words could have traveled to his ears. Then he raises his hands in mock surrender. "I do get enough sleep, I swear!"

"Mhm, sure." A movement of the hands, so passive that Yoosung misses it completely. Yet the dismissive handgesture holds no bite to it. She couldn't possibly kick a puppy with eyes as colourful as these. "Anyway, did you get...the payment?"

She points towards the backpack and Yoosung seems to realise what she means, so he quickly pulls it off his body and rummages through it enthusiastically - only to produce a single bag, visibly tense once more. "Uhm, I only...got one?"

She cannot contain a giggle. "Did you eat one of the two that were reserved for me?"

"...maybe?" The squeak which sounds more like a prey than a predator makes Yoosung appear even younger than he must be. The blush that coats his cheeks in red, as though someone painted him with the same care that the world painted the clear sky with, only deepens upon Yoosung noticing her scrutinising gaze.

But then she motions towards herself, nods towards the back, then to the store. All anger gone from her features, and Yoosung believes he has found someone who does rival the sun on this beatiful day. "Come on, let's grab a soda from the supermarket and share the bag of chips."

"Share?" Yoosung scratches his head, routed to the spot even as she pushes herself off of the wall that she leant on to walk towards the rundown shop.

"Hah, yes. I bet they taste twice as good with someone as nice as you around, Yoosung!" And she hurries along with a skip, dances through the well-known front door as Yoosung hurries to catch up with her, only to cough as he breathes in the dust that swirls around.

The aisles are as empty as ever, but the two of them quickly find what they are looking for. A pinch of sadness seasons her as she finds out that Ph.D. Pepper are still nowhere to find, but the dose of Yoosung's smile quickly gets rid of any disappointment she feels.

When they reach the cashier, she urges Yoosung to pay. "You _did_ eat my bag of chips, after all."

Once he reaches into his jeans' pockets to grab the money needed to pay for the two cans of bubbling liquid, she has already put the amount for one of the drinks on the counter. "That was a joke, Yoosung."

"Oh, ahaha, I knew that..." He scratches his cheek, blush once again on his face.

They leave the store not long after, but she makes sure to wish Mister Goh a good day. A nod is all that she gets in return, but it is one with the slightest hint of a smile and that makes all the difference. Outside the supermarket both of them find a spot perfect to sit on. A low wall, part of a staircase that leads downwards, with just enough charm to make the little dirt spots worth it.

She hops onto it and carefully shuffles her body to the side, so there is enough place for Yoosung to sit on. Her legs kick the air, playfully. She imagines herself sitting on an office chair, moving a bit with every single movement.

Once situated next to her Yoosung holds up the bag of honey buddha chips and grins. "Here it is. The treasure. The gold."

**"Ahh, yes! Go on Yoosung, open it. To a new friendship!"**


End file.
